


Shattered Steel

by Tak138



Series: Nightbringer [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Cruelty, Emotions, F/M, Femdom, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Permanent Injury, Physical Abuse, Punishment, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22809760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tak138/pseuds/Tak138
Summary: Thanks toCesarinna (formerly Saphemme)andSanguiafor beta'ing.
Series: Nightbringer [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639807
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53





	Shattered Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Cesarinna (formerly Saphemme)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesarinna/pseuds/Cesarinna) and [Sanguia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguia/pseuds/sanguia) for beta'ing.

Einri woke to an arm around his belly. His mistress was a warm weight against his back, heavy and solid. He took a moment, turned his face to rest against hers, where it was nuzzled in the crook of his neck. She looked so much more relaxed when she slept. None of that anger, that stress. 

There were things to do. Things he had to do before she woke. But Einri allowed himself this moment, with the woman he loved. The woman that owned his heart, mind, and body. Her hair freely splayed across the pillows, blood still spattered across her cheeks and forehead from whatever games she'd played with her sisters. Tentatively, he pressed a kiss between her eyes, and climbed out of bed. 

Niven was already awake, lying curled up at the foot on the bed. An unusual occurrence, but judging by the dark circles under his eyes, the boy hadn't slept at all that night. 

"Fetch Mistress' breakfast," he whispered. Niven only nodded, climbing to his feet and slipping silently out of the chamber. With a sigh, Einri ran his fingers through his hair, and strode to the bathroom to prepare a bath.

Days like these were always impossible to predict. The one day his Mistress took some time to herself, took time away from her kingdom and new crown, which meant she spent far more time with them. On one hand, Einri loved being able to spend some time with her, especially in the evening when she would allow him to doze with his head in her lap. But on the other hand… these days were hell for Niven. He couldn't so much as take a breath without her snarling at him, hitting him, kicking him. And Einri could see it wearing on him. 

Four months had passed since his Mistress had been crowned, and things had settled into a somewhat comfortable routine, at least for him. He didn't miss their time on the road, in between conquered strongholds. No running water, cold food, hard ground. Though that thought was always undercut with Niven's face, his nose now crooked and his eyes hollow. He was a sweet boy, really, with a soft smile and a penchant for sweets. All of that vanished whenever Mistress was nearby. Around her, he went from a caged dove to a beaten puppy. Always trembling, always quaking, squeaking, whimpering. As if every remaining piece of him vanished. 

It hurt to see. Especially since he knew Mistress would probably like Niven a whole lot more if she saw that side of him. 

As Einri filled the bath, dousing it in those oils he knew Mistress loved, he kept a sharp ear out for any sounds of her waking. She never demanded it, but he liked to be the first thing she saw. The quiet happiness on her face always made his heart soar. 

The gentle steam of the bath wafted up to meet his face. Einri closed his eyes, breathed it in. Just letting himself… be. If only for that one moment. 

There was a weight to his bones, as if he were already waterlogged. Tired. He was so, so tired. What he would give for a full day of peace and gentle cuddling. The whisper of the wind outside, Mistress' lap soft and cushioned under his head. 

What he wouldn't give to see her smile, to hear her whisper _my good boy_ into his ear as she pet him, without a piece of him worrying about what was to come. 

Just as he turned off the tap, he heard the rustle of sheets, and hurried back into the bedroom to kneel at the bed's side. Mistress had barely even opened her eyes, and he got to witness the moment where they ran over him, assessing, then closing as she recognized him. It was no small source of pride that his mistress, a warrior with a target on her back at all times, trusted him enough to rest in his presence. In the beginning, she hadn't. She would hold him at arm's length, never turn her back, wouldn't let him sleep at her side without being trussed and gagged. Always fearing the worst, his queen. 

Not without reason, of course. Her scars proved that. 

Mistress groaned, rolling onto her back. In the sunlight flitting through the silken curtains, her hair looked almost white, instead of its normal brown-black. Einri pressed his brow to her thigh, smiling softly as her fingers began toying with his hair. 

"I drew you a bath, Mistress," he whispered. 

Mistress blinked a few times, stretching out her powerful legs beneath the covers. "A bath?" She rasped. 

"You were… celebrating, last night," whispered Einri. "You always ask me to prepare a bath when you wake." 

She narrowed her eyes, and in a moment, all of Einri's happiness was gone. He shrunk down, cringing away from her hand. 

_Gods, you're so fucking stupid._

_Who are you to know what she wants?_

_Now you've gone and ruined a pleasant morning, fucking idiot._

"I-I beg your forgiveness," he choked, "I—I should not have presumed, Mistress, I-I—"

She reached for him, and Einri flinched so hard he knocked into the nightstand. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

The voice chanted over and over in his mind, sounding suspiciously like his mistress. 

Quivering, Einri ducked his head and swallowed hard. Mistress sighed, swung her legs over the side of the bed. He barely managed to suppress his flinch when she pet him, gently scratching at his temple. 

"Take a breath, Pet," she whispered, a smirk tugging at her lips, "You aren't in trouble." 

He disobeyed, holding his breath until his lungs burned. It was rare that she would lie to him. Twist and wind her words into mirror meanings, yes, but never a lie. And yet… he couldn't stop trembling. 

"I am sorry," he croaked, staring at the ground. "I am really, really sorry, Mistress. I—"

"Hush," she said, not unkindly. His mouth snapped shut anyways. Mistress glanced around the room. Her face, neck, and chest were creased from the sheets, her eyes still half lidded and hazy. She swallowed, swallowed again. "Where is Niven?" 

Marginally, Einri relaxed. If she was moving onto other things, he couldn't have offended her that badly. 

"I… sent him to retrieve your breakfast, Mistress," Einri replied, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. 

Thankfully, Mistress only nodded, raising her arms above her head and arching her back until there was a satisfying pop. He allowed himself one glance of her bare muscled body, of the scars that adorned it, before he dropped his eyes once more. She was beautiful, in a way he never imagined a woman could be. Deadly, dangerous, built like solid stone and as wide as any draft horse. Nothing like the lithe, dainty women he had grown up lusting after.

She could kill him. She may very well _end up_ killing him. And yet he loved her with his entire heart. 

Mistress yawned, flicked her hair over her shoulder. "So, the bath?"

Einri sprung to his feet, gathering his Mistress a proper set of clothes as she strode to the bathing room. 

"My hair, Einri," she said. He set her clothes on the counter, and hurried to gather his mistress' hair into a tail as she slipped into the water. She loosed a heavy sigh, her eyes closing, as Einri slid into place at the tub's edge to pillow her head with his thigh. He wasted no time retrieving a rag from around the faucet and dunking it in the water, beginning to gently work a night of sweat from his mistress's body.

"When is Niven supposed to get back?" she asked quietly, as he ran the rag around her jaw and throat. Yet another thing that sent a sting of pleasure through his blood. 

_She trusts me at her throat. No one else._

"He knows to bring it up a few minutes late, when I draw a bath," he murmured, "But not long, Mistress."

Mistress let out a little hum, blinking open her eyes to stare up at him. Einri paused to give her a small smile. When she returned it, his heart skipped a beat. 

When he finished, Einri wrung the rag out and set it aside. He grabbed a towel, a plush and lovely thing, and set to drying her off as soon as his mistress rose from the tub. As he helped her dress in a pair of leggings, tying the loose tunic down her front, Mistress just stood still. It was quite possible she was still mostly asleep. When Lady-Lieutenant Rissa had deposited her in the suite, it had nearly been four in the morning. She must be exhausted. 

From the main room, there was the sound of a door clicking open, and the shuffle of feet. 

"That would be breakfast, Mistress," he murmured. She nodded and, at his slight coercion, drifted out of the bathing room. 

Niven was standing with his head bowed, hands at his side, a second servant at his back. She was the one carrying the tray of food, and at Einri's questioning glance, Niven held up his arms to show the welts Mistress had left on them two nights prior. Einri bit his lip, glancing at their mistress in concern. 

But Mistress only gestured to the table near the wall, covering her mouth as she yawned. "Just put it over there."

The servant nodded, her eyes low, and obeyed. 

"How are you feeling, Mistress?" Einri asked quietly. She sighed, long and heavy, and rubbed her eyes. 

"Last night was ridiculous," she grumbled, "I feel as though someone socked me in the face and then struck me with a mace." 

Tentatively, Einri flashed a slightly wider grin. "So, you had a good time?"

She snorted, and for a moment Einri panicked, thinking it was a scoff of displeasure. But then she crooked a finger, beckoning him close, to draw him under her arm. Mistress let out a little hum, running her hand down his bare chest.

"I should take you with me sometime," she mused softly, "I've never seen you drunk." 

Instantly, he was torn between the longing to be at his mistress's side, and terror at what went on during those parties.

"I would be honored, Mistress," he whispered, following her finger with his eyes. 

The servant returned, and hovered. 

"Thank you," said Einri, offhanded. "You're dismissed." 

But the servant stayed. Unmoving. Her eyes trained on his mistress. She stiffened against him, grunting, "He said dismissed, Cunt. Get out of here." 

Still, the servant stayed. Einri swallowed, his heart beginning to pick up. There was a fight sparking the air, as his mistress fully woke up. 

"What, are you deaf?" She barked, "Get out!"

The servant jerked, hands moving in a flurry. All Einri saw was the glint of steel.

Niven shouted, "Knife!" 

The world went entirely quiet, and things slowed to a crawl. Mistress jerked, hands going out. 

_Not fast enough. Not fast enough. Not fast enough._

On instinct, Einri threw his body against hers. And then he exploded into agony. 

———

The assassin cringed away, the blade clattering to the floor, as Einri dropped to his knees. 

For a moment, Svaia stood entirely still. Her heart quiet. Her mind silent. As she saw was the red, the spurting blood, the punctures in Einri's flesh. She saw the movements played over again before her eyes. In and out, in and out, in and out, rapid fire, before she realized she'd struck the wrong target. 

There was a ringing in her ears. Slowly, slowly, Svaia raised her eyes to the slave. The assassin. The woman barely got one step in, before Svaia shattered her jaw with a single punch. A second had her dropping to the ground.

And then the world came rushing back in horrifying clarity, as bloodied hands grasped at her leg.

"Holy shit, Einri," she gasped, a sunk to the ground at his side. His eyes were wide, his mouth gaping, his hands clutching his side. 

"I—I'm sorry—" he choked.

"Don't speak," she hissed. Svaia looked over his wounds for one second, two, three. There was blood everywhere. Without a thought, Svaia tore her shirt from her body and pressed it to the wound, shoving her entire body weight against it. 

Einri clawed at her arm, fingers smeared with red. "M-Mistress—”

Svaia grabbed his hand, squeezing tight. "You're okay," she insisted, "You're okay, you're okay, _you're okay."_

He swayed on his knees, and Svaia urged him to lie down. He writhed like a snake under her, face twisted. "Hurts—p-pleas— _hurts_." 

"Hey, hey, look at me," she commanded. He did, his eyes bright and hazy, his skin pale like the moon. She squeezed his hand. "You're okay," she repeated, "You're—"

The door burst open. Svaia snarled loud enough to shake the floor, rounding, ready to rip the throat out of any woman foolish enough to get in the way.

Rissa slid down alongside her, dark eyes wide. They didn't share a word. Didn't even acknowledge the body sprawled across the ground. She took one look at Einri, and roared for a doctor. 

Beneath her, Einri was gasping, whimpering. "I—I am sorry, sorry, s-sorry," he rambled, "p-please, I—"

Rissa disappeared and reappeared in her vision, piling a towel against the bleeding. 

Again, Svaia squeezed Einri's hand, pressed it to her lips. "It's okay. You're going to be okay."

She could taste his blood. 

Rissa looked at her, pale as well, "I've got it, Commander." 

"Please," Einri wept, "Please—please, Mistress, I—I'm _sorry_ , please, I beg you!"

For a moment, Svaia hesitated. Her arms trembled, the stench of copper heavy in the air. There was red on her hands, bleeding through the towel. Einri's grip was getting weaker and weaker. 

"Commander," Rissa repeated, quieter this time. Svaia let go. 

"No—" Einri mewled, clinging desperately to her hand, "P-please, don't leave—"

"I'm here," she swallowed, "I'm here, I'm here." 

Rissa adjusted her position, and Einri threw his head back in a scream, before falling silent. The sound went straight to her heart, like a lance of ice. 

There was the pounding of feet down the hall. Not a second later, a dozen of her sisters skidded through the door, their head doctor at their front line. She took one look at Svaia, at Einri, and began to speak rapidly with Rissa. It was a blessing, because Svaia probably wouldn't have been able to answer her questions anyways. 

Voice like a whisper, Einri croaked, "Mistress…?"

"I'm here," she said again. He blinked once, twice. Slowly, like a cat. Then they slid shut. Her heart lurching, Svaia grabbed his jaw and demanded he open his eyes. 

Einri obeyed, eyes swimming, and then they focused on her. The fear she saw there was worse than anything she had ever seen before. 

He feared her, yes. But it was respectful, a general fear. This was a bone-deep terror. 

Einri grasped at her front, spreading the blood across her bare skin. She took both of his hand in hers, and squeezed until her knuckles went white. 

He looked at her again, his pupils blown so wide that she couldn't see any of the color. Svaia stared into those eyes, memorized every line and speck and shine. The eyes of her pet. Her boy. 

Einri slurred something in a language she barely understood, and groaned as the doctor assessed his wounds. He tilted his head forward, looking—Svaia shoved his head back. 

"Don't," she barked, "Lie still." 

His eyes drifted back to hers. Foggy. Tired. Frightened. 

Something dark and cold settled over her as Einri looked at her, the ceiling above, then her once more, and swallowed hard. "I-I don't want to die."

"You won't," she said instantly. 

He whined, tossed his head back. "Please—please, make it _stop_!"

"We need to get him on a table," said the doctor. Svaia barely heard her. 

"Please," he whined, tears streaming down his face, "Please, please, M-Mistress, please—"

And that was her heart breaking. On the floor, beneath her fingers. 

Her sisters attempted to heave Einri into their arms, and he _shrieked_. 

Like a wild cat, Svaia lunged at the nearest woman. "Don't you fucking touch him!"

Then there were hands on her, pulling her away, Einri whimpering in agony, as Rissa dragged her to the door and outside. 

Svaia screeched in protest, her heart tearing in two as they were separated. But she didn't fight. She couldn't have made herself fight Rissa had she tried. They were blood, truly blood, and her body knew it. 

Even if the sound of Einri screaming for her made tears well in her eyes. He had always screamed for her whenever she'd wanted, but never like _that._

_Like he was being burned alive._

"Svaia."

Her eyes flicked to Rissa's. Her hands were on her shoulders, holding tight. 

"Are you hurt?"

Svaia shook her head, wiping furiously at the tears streaming down her face.

"Do you need to sit down?"

Again, she shook her head. Staring so far in the distance. She could still hear Einri screaming, even though they had closed the doors. Crying for her, in-between howls of pain. 

"I'm crying over a slave," whispered Svaia.

Rissa scoffed, "Fuck, Svai. It's okay, we all know he's different."

"He's not," she bit out, angrily wiping her face with the back of her hand, "He's—he's just another slave."

"You've held onto him for seven years. It's not a sin, Svai."

Her stomach began roiling, her mind going fuzzy. "They'll think I am a fool," she whispered. 

"They'll think you're human. Fuck, nearly every woman here has a doll they're attached to. It's normal!"

Svaia closed her eyes, trying to block out Einri's screams. 

And then her eyes snapped open. "Where's Niven?"

Rissa tilted her head, "My chambers. I was nearby, and he—"

Svaia stormed past, headed straight for Rissa's suite of rooms.

She should have known. He was from an isle of snakes. It was only a matter of time before he and his ilk struck. And gods, he'd struck hard. 

There was blood on her hands, her face, her breasts. Caked under her nails, staining through her pants. She reeked of it. 

_Einri's blood._

All over her floor, her table. Her sisters trying desperately to stitch him up, as he cried and cried and cried. For her. 

There was such quiet in her head. As if every single thought had died, and she was left hollow and vacant. And then, like a tidal wave, wrath welled in her heart and burned, burned, _burned._

Niven was a dead man. 

Svaia kicked open the door to Rissa's chambers, found Niven huddled on his knees near a glass table. 

He looked up, eyes wide, "Is he—?"

Her vision flooding with red, Svaia crossed the room and punched him square in the face. Blood spurted from his nose, the crack of bone reverberating through her entire body. Niven wailed, trying to scramble away. Svaia snatched him by the front of his shirt, heaved him up, and slammed him through the glass tabletop. 

Rissa burst in, eyes wide, "Commander—"

"You did this!" Svaia shrieked, and jammed a shard of glass through Niven's shoulder. He screeched, bucking beneath her. 

Svaia only sunk to her knees atop his chest, pressing him against the shattered glass. She grabbed another piece, her palm splitting on the sharp edge, and pressed it to Niven's throat so hard that the skin broke, and blood welled. He went completely, utterly still. Trembling, staring at her with tears in his eyes. 

"M-Mistress, p-please…" he whispered, "I-I didn't, I wouldn't, I—"

"Commander!" Rissa shouted. Her head snapped up, hating the look of question on her lieutenant's face. 

"He did this," she snarled, "He brought the slave in, he's a part of this." 

Niven gasped, the sound broken and wet. "No! No, nonono! I would never! Never, I would—"

Tears blurred her eyes, dripping down her nose and onto Niven's cheek. He tried to turn his head, and Svaia's entire body burned red hot with fury. She slashed across his face, leaving his ear split in two and her ears ringing from his howl.

"Commander, I heard him call a warning," barked Rissa, "Why would he do that if he wanted you to die?"

Frustration boiling over, Svaia shouted, "Because he knew you would kill him if I got hurt! He _knew_ —"

"He knew I was there?" Rissa finished, one brow quirked. "He just happened to know I was on my way back to my chambers, and called out in the off chance that I heard him?"

Out loud, it sounded foolish. 

"It's his fault," Svaia insisted, "They're with him, they did this for _him_."

Beneath her, Niven was openly sobbing, his face red, blood oozing from his wounds, glass strewn through his golden hair. "I would never," he wept, "Never. You're my—you're my Mistress, my queen, I had no—no part—I didn't know! Gods, please, I didn't know!"

Rissa took a few steps closer, hands spread before her, "Svaia, let him up. This isn't his fault, and you know it."

"It _is_ ," she hissed, "It has to be!"

"If you want to take out your pain on him, then so be it," Rissa sniped, "But don't slit the poor boy's throat because his people are stupid. You're better than that." 

Svaia grit her teeth so hard she thought they might break. Beneath her, Niven hadn't stopped trembling. He was sweaty, slick to the touch, his eyes bleary and unfocused, tears still leaking down his cheeks. He had to be in agony with all those little cuts, the damage to his muscles and tendon, his face. 

Slowly, Svaia stood, and strode into Rissa's bedchamber. She didn't care what happened to Niven, not then, but Rissa joined her a few moments later. Her sister was a tall woman, nearly as tall as she was, with rich olive skin and eyes narrow like a blade. Her hair, thick and black, was always drawn back into a plait of some sort.

"Where's your boy?" Svaia asked, from where she had crumbled on Rissa's bed. 

"I've got him overlooking the training of a few other fresh ones," she replied, "How are you feeling?"

Svaia only glared.

Rissa sighed, retrieving a tunic from the chest of drawers against the far wall and handing it to her. "It's alright to care sometimes, Svai."

"I don't," she grunted, yanking the shirt over her head, heedless of the blood on her. Rissa only sighed, face deadpanned. Svaia slumped, pressing her face to her hands. "Is it that obvious?"

Slowly, Rissa came to sit at her side. "If it makes you feel any better, it probably reads more as possessive to most people. I haven't heard any of the others mention it."

"...so how can you tell?"

Rissa was quiet for a moment, long enough that Svaia looked up at her. Rissa's eyes were on the window, the city beyond. "Because," she said at length, "I've seen you stabbed, bludgeoned, and gutted. I've seen you with your fingers snapped and your legs twisted backwards. I've seen you go through surgery fully awake and conscious. But in all our years together, I've never heard you make a sound like the one you made when I pulled you out of there." 

Svaia bowed her head, pressed her palms to her eyes until she saw stars.

Quietly, Rissa asked, "Do you have a plan? You know this won't be the last time they strike." 

That fire burned and burned in her chest, the place where her heart was supposed to be. 

"They're probably in the city," murmured Svaia, "They wouldn't go far if they didn't have to."

"You think the people know?"

She grit her teeth, the sound of Einri's screams echoing in her ears. "It doesn't matter. We wouldn't be able to get them all if we tried, they're like rats. We need to try something else."

Rissa tilted her head, brows high, "I don't follow."

"We have to cut their ties with the people. Get their citizens to turn on them," Svaia went on. She hesitated, her mind whirring, slowly, slowly. Then, quietly, Svaia said, "I want executions. Two everyday at high noon in the city square. Let the ladies pick whoever they want, knock on whatever door they choose, from whatever district spited them that day."

"And then what, Commander?" asked Rissa, a grin in her voice. 

Svaia swallowed, "We'll tell them it will continue until the rebellion ceases. For every one member of the rebellion they turn in, a life will be spared in exchange." 

Without a word, Rissa turned towards the door. Ready to fulfill her command without question. But then, Svaia thought of something else. 

She looked up, "Rissa."

"Yes, Commander?"

"The assassin, is she dead? I only hit her twice." 

There was a grin on Rissa's face, only growing wider and wider. "I believe she was breathing, Commander, one of the others would have secured her."

Svaia looked down at her hands, at the cut she'd received from the shard of glass. "Let the women have their fun with her, but don't kill her. She might have something worth sharing."

——— 

Later, when the sun was hanging low and the sky was a rich violet, Svaia watched Einri breathe. 

The doctor had managed to patch Einri up as best she could, but his skin was still pale, almost waxen in the low light. She'd had to give him a sedative so he didn't hurt himself, and he'd yet to come out of it, several hours later. 

Svaia was seated on the sofa nearby, Niven lying curled up at her feet. He'd been bandaged up as well, his arm bound to his chest by a sling due to those damaged tendons. The surgeon suspected it would regain limited use with time, but for now he was stuck with his non dominant hand. Something that would probably inspire a myriad of games in the future. His face and ear had been stitched together as well, his nose set back into place. 

They hadn't spoken the entire time. Svaia hadn't even needed to command him, Niven had just gone to ground like a dog.

She didn't regret hurting him, that was his place at her side. What Svaia did regret was losing control of herself so thoroughly that she nearly killed him. Not to mention the fact that she now owed Rissa a new table. That wasn't the way the Queen-Commander was supposed to act. She was supposed to be in control at all times. Every second she wasn't was a second of weakness. 

Her eyes flicked back to Einri on the bed, tracking each breath he took. She thought of the blood, still on the floor. Still on her.

"Niven." 

He looked up at her, eyes wide. Already, he was trembling. She snapped her fingers, pointing to the space at her side. The fear was evident on his face, the gears whirring behind those ice blue eyes as he tried to decipher the trap. 

But Niven had learned by now. Without hesitation, he climbed onto the cushion. Hunched low, head bowed. Never daring to make himself bigger than her. Svaia made it easy for him, gesturing for him to lie his head in her lap. He obeyed, legs tucked in tight. Quivering the entire while. He flinched when she began to pet him, still and stiff like a statue. 

That was fine. She felt nothing for him. At least, nothing like what she did for Einri. 

Quietly, she said, "You may very well have saved my life."

He swallowed, "Of—of course, Mistress."

"Do you regret it? Tell me the truth."

Niven was silent then. Only for a second, and then he shook his head. "No, Mistress."

She raised an eyebrow, "Oh? Is that so?"

"Einri told me what would have happened had—had you decided you didn't want me," he murmured, "I would very much prefer my life with you."

"And why is that?" 

He shifted, wincing as he nudged his shoulder wrong. "Well, I get hurt either way, don't I? At least you're just one person. I can—I can learn how to be good for you. I'm—I'm trying to learn, I swear, I—"

"Niven," she sighed. He shut his mouth. Opened, shut it again. 

Then, he went on, "I can't—I can't learn to be good for a dozen, or more. Here I usually get food, I get a warm place to sleep—even if it's not soft. I don't—don't have to worry about being experimented on by the doctor or getting used for labor. I just—I just have to make one person happy." 

She brushed some of his hair from his face, her other hand resting on his throat. She didn't have the energy to choke him, or the will. It was just the way her hands usually fell. A simple, casual threat. She had tormented him enough today, he didn't need anything overt. 

"You're learning," Svaia breathed, and found herself satisfied in response to the look of relief on Niven's face. Slaves needed a little bit of positive reinforcement here and there. It was how one reinforced a trauma-bond. It was why Einri's eyes lit up like a forge whenever she called him 'good boy', even as she caned him bloody. This was not that, not wholly anyways. 

She didn't know what this was. But there was a fair amount of satisfaction that came with every shy smile Niven gave her. Not warmth, not affection or fondness, but satisfaction. He was hers, and he was doing well. All things considered, anyways. 

Tracing the cock still scarred onto his shoulder, Svaia whispered, "I am going to give you one mercy, as a reward for doing the right thing." 

"Mercy?" Niven echoed, dumbfounded. Svaia could have laughed. Mercy was not something generally in her vocabulary. But it had a place, just like everything else. 

"Yes, a mercy," she replied, "Of all the terrible things I do to you, you're allowed to pick one that I'll never do again." Niven didn't speak, his expression frightened and unsure. Svaia continued, "It can't be something broad like 'no more pain', and it can't be freedom. It has to be something like 'no more tawse' or 'no more sleeping on hard floor'." 

Still, he was quiet enough that Svaia had to peer down at his face to make sure he was listening. He was, if his quick and nervous breathing was anything to go by. 

"Is this a trick?" he squeaked. 

"No trick," she replied, "Pick one thing, and I will abide by it, and it cannot be changed by punishment. I swear on my blood and blade." 

"C-can it be anything?" 

"If it follows the rules," she sighed. 

Niven pushed himself up, fast enough that Svaia stiffened and clenched her fists, ready to snap at him and remove his choice. Niven didn't look at her eyes, though. Or even her face. He just stared at her, almost _through_ her. 

"Niven," Svaia said, warning in her tone. 

"No more bondage, please," he blurted, and then his eyes went wide, "That's too broad, isn't it—shit, I—I just, please, don't tie me up anymore? For sex, or for sleep, or for punishment. I don't need it, I can—"

Svaia held up her hand before Niven could take himself into a fervor. "No more bondage?" She repeated.

Niven nodded sharply. "If it—if it follows your rules, Mistress. Please." 

She leaned back, considering. It felt broad, but it wasn't. Had he said 'beatings', she would have declined. That could mean anything. But bondage? That was specific enough for her. Even if it complicated things later on.

"Fine," she acquiesced, "But I will not hesitate to start locking you in tiny rooms instead if you cause trouble." 

"Never," he croaked, "Never, I would never. I have no intention of ever fleeing, Mistress. I know what awaits me out there."

Svaia nodded, and sunk back into the couch. Niven's eyes were shining—probably with tears. Slowly, tentatively, he leaned in to tuck his head under her chin, lips to her collarbone. Instantly, Svaia focused on keeping her body very still. There was only one person she allowed at her throat, maybe two, and neither of them were Niven. But she didn't shove him off, not yet. Because he had never done this before. The gentle suckling at her skin, pressing his body against hers. This was Einri's way of saying thank you, an offering of his body. Niven must have noticed, and was trying to say _thank you_ by offering the only thing a slave really could. 

It meant nothing coming from him. He didn't understand why it always made her scoff, and smile. For awhile after she'd broken him, sex was the only thing that made Einri show resistance. The only thing that could shake his devotion to her. So his offering meant more. 

She didn't tell Niven that, of course. He was trying. So Svaia grabbed him by the chin and tugged him away, using her grasp to pucker his lips like a fish. "Nice try, Pet," she snorted, "Find your own way."

Niven smiled again, timid and meek, and lied back down in her lap. 

She didn't _care_ for him, not like Einri. Einri was a pet. Niven was an object, like a blade or a quill, But if she had to pick between Niven and some common slave from the city, he would win by a mile. 

———

He woke to numbness, and a buzzing in his head. There was the faintest sensation of pain, as if he were experiencing it from years and years away. All of his limbs were heavy, his eyelids leaden and his thoughts sluggish, like cold honey. 

Slowly, Einri managed to crack open his eyes. The bedroom was swathed in silver moonlight and indigo darkness, the stark contrast making his head ache. Beneath his stiff muscles, the bed was lusciously soft, the comforter fluffy and warm. Then his heart skipped a beat. 

He wasn't allowed in bed without his Mistress. And sleeping so spread out as he was, hogging the entire mattress? Gods, he was such a useless pet. With no small amount of effort, he turned his head to the side, and saw a scene that made his heart sink. His mistress, dozing on the couch with her chin propped on a fist. And there was Niven, in her lap. Asleep as well. 

This was bad. _He_ was bad. Forcing his mistress out of bed, enraging her to the point that she preferred Niven's company over his? He had to fix this. Now, he had to fix this now. Get up, crawl over, and kiss her feet until she stopped hating him. 

He tried to push himself up, and squawked as pain like a horse's kick stuck him so hard his vision blacked out. With a thud, Einri sank back down. There was a scrambling on the sofa, a curse, and then his Mistress was standing over him. On instinct, Einri flinched, shying away from her touch. 

"Hey, hey," his mistress crooned, in a voice she had never used on him, "You're okay, you're alright."

"I-I'm sorry," he rasped, "I don't—I don't know what happened, Mistress. I don't remember…"

Mistress held up a finger to silence him, saying to someone—Niven, probably, "Fetch him some water. Tepid." 

Her eyes returned to him, and Einri tried to make himself as small as possible. She didn't seem mad, but he didn't dare trust it. 

Mistress brushed his hair from his face, her touch light, almost… nervous. 

_She's never nervous. Something must have happened, something did this to her. Gods, it had to be truly terrible if it did this to_ her _._

"What do you remember?" She asked, in that same quiet voice. 

Einri dared to choose his eyes, trying to stave off the beginning of a headache. "I… remember pain," he answered weakly, "And—and you, maybe? I beg your forgiveness, Mistress, I-I don't know how I got here."

"You were wounded, in my defense," came his mistress' quiet reply. 

He opened his eyes again, squinting against the light. "Y-your defense?"

There was blood stained through her tunic, on her hands and face. A spear of panic shot through him. Was she hurt? Wounded? Was that why she was treating him so gently? She was _hurt_?

"An assassin got in," Mistress explained, "She tried to stab me, but you took the blow instead. Well, blows." 

"Are you okay?" He blurted, and then clamped his mouth shut. 

_Speaking out of turn, now of all times?_

Mistress still didn't look angry. In fact, she gave him a wry little grin, "Yes, Pet, I'm alright. Because of you."

Einri flushed hard, his entire body turning bright pink. Mistress just snorted.

Niven was hovering nearby, a glass of water in hand, and Einri winced at the sight of the cut spanning his cheek, at the sight of his crooked, uneven smile. Of his ear, nearly slashed in half.

_My fault._

Mistress took the water, pressed the cup to his lips. Einri swallowed as much as he possibly could, and held in a whimper when she suddenly set the glass aside. 

"How are you feeling?" She asked. 

She was staring at him so intently, blood dried and flaking on her hands and face. Einri couldn’t help but cower, shrinking into the bed and ducking his head. Was he in trouble? Was she mad at him? He'd damaged her property, wasted her resources, got in her way, ruined her one day of peace. Why was he even allowed in bed? He should be on the floor, wrists bound tight enough to bleed.

Mistress said his name, and he flinched. He hadn't answered her question. 

"F-Fine, Mistress," whispered Einri, "I do not—I just feel a little… sore. I am okay."

"The doctor said to keep you on bed rest for at least a week, and then easy work until the stitches come out, so I guess you get a little vacation," his mistress said, and Einri felt himself burn red hot. He didn't dare deny his mistress's words, even if the thought of lazing around for _seven entire days_ filled him with a strange amount of dread. He didn't deserve a break, not for this. 

Still, there was a shakiness to his hands, a trembling in his lips. His memories were coming back, one sliver at a time. He remembered terror, like nothing else. Blood on his tongue, his eyes blinded with tears. Screaming for her to keep him safe, to stay. 

Because he didn't want to die alone, surrounded by strangers. 

Something pitiful must have been written on his face, because Mistress sent Niven to limp away, and drew Einri closer to her side. He didn't cry, didn't weep. He just sniffled, clenching his fists at his side to hide their trembling. 

"You're a good boy," Mistress whispered, "A very, very good boy."

He wasn't. He was garbage. He was useless, a slouch, a cunt, a moron. He damaged her property, nearly cost her seven years of labor. 

And yet… he probably would do it again, if it meant she came through unscathed. Whatever it took to keep her safe, he would do it. 

She laid him down, brushing his hair from his face once more. For a moment, he went cold with shame, realizing he was so unkempt for her. Unless it was very early in the morning, he was always supposed to be pretty. 

Now though, he was too tired to fix it.

Mistress said something over her shoulder, and Niven was sliding across the foot of the bed, curling into a tiny ball right at Einri's feet. Despite the poor thing's grimace of pain, there was something about it that warmed his heart, something that made him feel unreasonably safe. Especially as Mistress settled down on his other side, her hand finding his and gently squeezing. 

"Don't think you won't owe me," she whispered, her eyes twinkling, "A week off is a lot, even for someone that nearly died. You're going to have to work extra hard to make it up to me."

Einri managed another smile, even though he knew she wasn't joking. He closed his eyes, and then opened them as his Mistress tugged on his hand. Her face had fallen grave, stoney. 

"And don't you ever pull that shit again." 

He swallowed, "Of course, Mistress."

She softened, drawing the covers up to his shoulders. "Get some sleep, Pet." 

With a nod, Einri shifted as best he could without aggravating his wounds. He adjusted his feet, tucking them under Niven's warm body. He saw Niven crack a tiny smile, and then closed his eyes. 

Yes, he would definitely do this again. For the both of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [tumblr](https://tak138.tumblr.com/)


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